<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Life On Mars Part One: It's A God-Awful Small Affair by Alice_Writes_Stuff</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29567937">Life On Mars Part One: It's A God-Awful Small Affair</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alice_Writes_Stuff/pseuds/Alice_Writes_Stuff'>Alice_Writes_Stuff</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ashes To Ashes AU [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket, Life on Mars (UK)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Crossover, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon-Typical Violence, Everyone Is A Chef's Salad, F/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Police Procedural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:27:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,436</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29567937</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alice_Writes_Stuff/pseuds/Alice_Writes_Stuff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"My name is Jacques Snicket, I had an accident and I woke up in 1973. Am I mad, in a coma, or back in time? Whatever's happened, it's like I've landed on another planet. Now maybe if I can figure out the reason, I can get home."</p><p>When DCI Jacques Snicket and his younger brother Lemony clash over their approaches to a murder enquiry they're working on, events quickly take a dark turn.</p><p>Now Jacques is in 1973, and nothing is what it seems to be. He doesn't know what he's doing here, or how he can get home again, but he's determined to do whatever it takes...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bertrand Baudelaire &amp; Georgina Orwell, Bertrand Baudelaire &amp; Jacques Snicket, Count Olaf &amp; Georgina Orwell, Count Olaf &amp; Jacques Snicket, Jacques Snicket &amp; Georgina Orwell, Olivia Caliban/Jacques Snicket</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ashes To Ashes AU [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706992</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue: In Which The Snicket Brothers Investigate A Murder</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">Prologue: In Which The Snicket Brothers Investigate A Murder</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span class="u">Manchester, 2006</span>
  </em>
</p><p>It all began with a fairly standard arrest. Jacques Snicket, his younger brother Lemony, and several other officers had arrived at the house of Colin Raimes, a suspect in their murder investigation.</p><p>“Colin Raimes?” Jacques said, knocking on the door. “Open the door, please, it’s the police!” Nothing happened. “Right, Mr Raimes, we have a warrant to search the house and remove property in compliance with the Criminal Evidence Act!”</p><p>When nothing happened again, Jacques sighed, and nodded to one of the uniformed officers, who knocked the door down. He spotted Raimes standing further down the hall, and no sooner did Raimes notice him than he took off running out of the back door and into the street.</p><p>Jacques groaned, and followed him. Raimes leapt over the wall of his back garden, and Jacques jumped after him, following him through the old cobblestoned streets that hadn’t really changed in decades. The chase continued, as Raimes ran through a garden, another house, out onto the road and back down a different street, Jacques staying hot on his heels all the way.</p><p>“Smack his face in!” chimed a rather unhelpful ten-year-old from one of the houses. Jacques sighed, drawing out the baton that he preferred to use as sparingly as possible.</p><p>“This is gonna look very bad on your arrest report, Colin,” he said.</p><p>Luckily, Raimes saw the baton and took the hint, holding up his hands and letting Jacques put handcuffs on his wrists.</p>
<hr/><p>They brought Raimes back to the station, and Jacques got everything set up for the interview. Lemony joined him, the two brothers sitting across from Raimes and his team.</p><p>“Interview commenced at 11:19 a.m.” Jacques said, checking the time on his watch and noting it down. “The suspect will state his name.”</p><p>“Colin Raimes,” Raimes said, looking at the security camera rather than at Jacques or Lemony.</p><p>“Also present are the suspect's lawyer, psychiatrist and social worker,” Jacques continued. Then he took out several small photos and passed them across the table to Raimes. They displayed the head and shoulders of a young woman, who had been killed last year. “Look at these photos, Colin,” he said. “Lauren Chester, murdered in November last year. Kidnapped, no sexual assault, she was starved and held for thirty hours, and strangled with a bootlace.”</p><p>“You’re upsetting him,” Raimes’s psychiatrist replied.</p><p>“We just have a couple more things to go over,” Jacques said, “then we can wrap this up.” He consulted his notes. “We also have reason to believe you may be connected to Bettina Mitchell, who was attacked last Saturday. Her attacker said: <em>Fight me and you will end up like Lauren. </em>And this is the ID picture that Bettina gave us.”</p><p>Jacques presented Raimes with the Identi-kit image of Bettina’s attacker- an image which bore a striking resemblance to Raimes himself. Then he drew something else from their pile of evidence.</p><p>“This is your diary- we found it in your room.” He held up a sheet of paper, where some relevant quotes from the diary had been copied. “From the diary, quote: <em>I killed her. She’s been killed. I’m a killer, an ace killer. </em>That particular entry is not awash with ambiguity. It’s dated November 4<sup>th, </sup>the day after the murder.”</p><p>“Colin’s a first-rate fantasist,” Raimes’s psychiatrist pointed out.</p><p>“So, let’s talk about the night of the abduction, Colin- November 2<sup>nd</sup>.”</p><p>“Hold on, November 2<sup>nd</sup>?” Raimes’ social worker asked, checking her own notes.</p><p>“That’s correct.”</p><p>“He was at our drop-in centre. Some kids had thrown fireworks at him- he was distressed, so we brought him to the centre.”</p><p>“I think we're done here,” Raimes’ lawyer said, clicking his pen and gathering his papers together.</p>
<hr/><p>Jacques and Lemony returned to the incident room. Jacques wasn’t sure what they were meant to do now- but he did know that it couldn't involve Colin Raimes, not after that interview.</p><p>“Colin Raimes isn’t our man,” he said. “We’ll go back to our best lead, the fibres we found underneath the fingernails of the victim.” He pulled up a picture of the victim’s hands on his computer, which did indeed have fibres trapped under the fingernails. “They’re definitely synthetic.”</p><p>“I think there’s more to be had from Raimes,” Lemony countered. “Let’s lean on him.”</p><p>“Right, and then we’ll be sued for harassment of a schizophrenic. He’s a fantasist, Lem, it says so in his psych evaluation.”</p><p>“Oh, screw his psych evaluation! Whatever happened to believing in gut feelings? You used to say they mattered!”</p><p>“I think you’re getting me mixed up with our sister,” Jacques snapped. “You’ve got a right knack for doing that, I’ve noticed.”</p><p>“Piss off,” he muttered. “This isn’t about Kit, this is about Raimes.”</p><p>“Everything’s about Kit these days,” Jacques countered. “Whether it’s meant to be or not, that’s usually what we always swing back to. If I’d been the one who’d swanned off to London, you wouldn’t be so-”</p><p>“Oh, don’t start that again. The point is, I thought we’d agreed we’d not let anyone or anything split us up again.”</p><p>“Yes, when Kit and I were twelve, and you were eight. You can’t seriously still be hanging onto a twenty-five-year-old promise that one of us was bound to break eventually.” He shook his head. “Look, I’m gonna have to stand you down from this case, Lemony- it’s just not productive when we’ve got all this going on.”</p><p>“Look, forget about all that,” Lemony said. “I’ve got a theory about Raimes, about why he kept a diary.”</p><p>“I’ve made my mind up.”</p><p>“Don’t you wanna know what I’m thinking? My feeling is-”</p><p>“Look around you- what use are feelings in this room?”</p><p>“Why are you shutting me out?” Lemony asked. He sighed, and walked back over to his desk.</p><p>Jacques groaned, and sat down at his own desk. It seemed that he and his siblings were destined to always be divided over something. He just wished that, even when it was him and Lemony on one side of a divide, he didn’t still feel alone, or like Lemony would much rather swap him for Kit. That had gotten even more apparent these last few months, after Kit had moved down to London with her husband Dewey and their ten-year-old daughter, Beatrice.</p><p>There was no use getting bogged down worrying over all that now, though- this was the way things were, now, they’d all just have to get used to it. Besides, with everything they’d been through, Jacques could hardly hold it against Kit if she was happy with her new family, even if it meant she was now further away from her old one.</p><p>Just then, Jacques felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the caller ID- weird, he hadn’t even known Lemony had left the incident room- then answered the call.</p><p>“What are you doing, Lem?” he asked.</p><p>“I’m following my feeling, Jacques- I think there’s more to Raimes, I think he’s trying to impress someone. What if he knows the killer?”</p><p>“Hang on,” Jacques replied. “If social services find out…” he trailed off. “Where are you exactly, Lemony?”</p><p>“I’m tailing Raimes,” he said, though it was a little hard to make out due to how poor the signal was.</p><p>“You’re breaking up.”</p><p>“Someone's there,” Lemony said, ignoring him. “Raimes is heading up toward Satchmore Road. I’m gonna go and-”</p><p>“Lemony, no- listen, I’ll send back up, and-”</p><p>There was a scream on the other end of the line, and that was when Jacques’ world changed- and it was only the beginning.</p><p>Jacques couldn't get to Satchmore Road fast enough- but he still wasn’t there on time. Sitting on one of the swings was his brother’s suit jacket, with his lemon-patterned tie attached to the chain. He stared at them both for a minute, before forcing himself to look away and address one of the uniformed officers on the scene.</p><p>“Preserve the scene,” he instructed, “and call in SOCO, please.” He closed his eyes. “Whoever the killer is, he’s got him now.”</p><p>“Snicket can probably hold his own, sir- I wouldn't be too worried. I’m sure he’ll be back with us in no time.”</p><p>“Snickets are meant to take care of their own,” Jacques replied. “It’s my fault this has happened.”</p><p>With a heavy heart, Jacques got back into his car and drove away. He wasn’t really paying attention to where he was going, and he didn’t stop until another car cut him off, narrowly avoiding crashing into him.</p><p>He stopped the car for a moment, trying to gather himself together. That officer was probably right- Lemony probably would be able to at the very least put up a fight against whoever had got him. All hope wasn’t lost just yet, he shouldn't assume anything yet.</p><p>But… how could he have been so negligent as to not notice his own brother leaving? How had he allowed any of this to happen? However he looked at it, this was still his fault. If he’d just <em>listened </em>to Lemony earlier, he wouldn't have felt the need to go off on his own, and…</p><p>He sighed, opened the car door and got out. An old song was playing from his iPod, and for a moment he stood, leaning against the closed door and listening to the song.</p><p>And then the car came racing past, knocking him to the ground. Jacques didn’t even see it coming.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter One: In Which Nothing Is What It Ought To Be</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">Chapter One: In Which Nothing Is What It Ought To Be</span>
</p><p>For a while, Jacques lay on the concrete, not fully processing what was happening. He could move his fingers a little, but not anything else… he thought he could hear sirens somewhere, and that same song, that same old David Bowie track…</p><p>Then he could see trees overhead, the sunlight filtering through the trees… a small voice calling out for someone, small feet walking on the ground… things both strangely familiar and long forgotten…</p><p>Then, finally, he sat up, and looked around. Something wasn’t right- something had changed. He got to his feet and looked around- something had <em>definitely </em>changed. He wasn’t on the motorway any more, he was in a yard, with piles of rubble in a couple of corners. There was a factory on one side of the walls, smoke billowing out of the chimneys, and an abandoned building at one end of the yard, a pile of rubble in front of it.</p><p>Just as it seemed things couldn't get any weirder, he saw his car- except, it wasn’t his car. It was blue, and retro-looking, and it was just sitting there, in the middle of the yard, that same song still playing from the speakers. Jacques walked over to it, poking his head through the opening window. The passenger seat was covered in documents, though Jacques couldn’t make out what any of them were. He was about to take a closer look when another person’s head poked through the other window.</p><p>“What happened?” the man said.</p><p>He was a policeman, dressed in an old-fashioned uniform, the sort that often appeared in children’s illustrations of police officers, but hadn’t actually been worn by any of them in decades. <em>What in God’s name is going on here?</em></p><p>“Did you not see the signs?” the policeman continued. “Do you remember what happened, Sir?” Jacques didn’t say anything. “Sir, can you tell me what happened?”</p><p>“This…” Jacques began, finally finding his voice. “This is not my car. I was… I was driving a Jeep.”</p><p>“You were driving a military vehicle?” the policeman asked, incredulously. Then he reached into the car and pulled out the papers. “Hang on, it says here that you’re a transfer from C Division in Hyde, Detective Inspector.”</p><p>“<em>Detective Inspector?” </em>Jacques asked, shaking his head. “No, I’m a D.C.I. What the Hell are you?” He reached into the pockets of his jacket- which seemed to be leather, not like the suit jacket he’d been wearing earlier- looking for his phone. It was nowhere to be found. “I need my mobile.”</p><p>“Your mobile what?”</p><p>“Phone!”</p><p>This really, really wasn’t right. Jacques took off running, ignoring the officer calling after him. He only paused when he saw the sign at the entrance to the yard- a sign which depicted the very same motorway where Jacques had been knocked over.</p><p>He made his way out onto the street, where there were more old-fashioned cars, more people wandering around in clothes that hadn’t been fashionable since Jacques was small. Everyone seemed to be wearing at least something brown, and a fair number of the men that were passing by wore flares.</p><p>Reluctantly, he looked down at his own outfit. A black leather jacket, a light brown button-up shirt, the collar wide and the top button undone, black flared trousers and brown, Cuban heeled boots. <em>This is one Hell of a bad dream, </em>he thought, reaching into his jacket and finding his warrant card. Sure enough, his rank was now listed as Detective Inspector- which might not be so bad if he at least knew why he had been demoted.</p><p>Finally, he reached work, which had also undergone a noticeable change. There were more uniformed officers on bikes, more old-fashioned cars- and that was all before he entered the building itself.</p><p>The incident room was a sepia-tinted mess. There were far more detectives than there ought to be, and Jacques didn’t recognise a single one of them. Worse than that, though, there was no sign of his office, which was supposed to be here.</p><p>He was broken out of his thoughts when he accidentally knocked into someone’s desk, knocking a box of tissues and a couple of pens to the floor. A friendly looking young man with messy dark hair and glasses came forward to shake his hand. His other hand held a cigarette- in fact, pretty much everyone here had either a cigarette, a glass of whiskey or both in their hands.</p><p>“DC Bert Markson,” he said. “Plod’s bringing in your stuff, and one of the girls’ll sort out your RTA.” He paused, looking at Jacques a little more closely. “Hey, don’t sweat it if you’ve had a couple of stiff ones.” He took a long drag from his cigarette, looking around the room. “Blimey, you look like you’ve done ten rounds with Big Henry- someone needs to take a look at you, boss, you’re as white as a ginger bird’s arse!”</p><p>“Maybe we should get that new plonk from the next floor, Caliban- she’ll give you a good seeing to, I’m sure,” commented an older woman who was sitting at the desk behind Jacques. She was the only woman in the room, her light brown hair neatly pinned back and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on her nose.</p><p>“Maybe you should give him a seeing to, Orwell!” another detective chipped in. “You’re hardly a step above a plonk yourself, after all!”</p><p>“Hey, there’s no need for that,” Jacques snapped. “Look, I don’t know who the hell you lot think you are, but this is my office, right here.” He went over to the corner of the room where his office ought to be. “There should be a door, here, and my desk, here.” He pointed to the ground he stood on, where his desk should be. “Where’s my desk?” he asked. “Chair?” he added, when none of them said anything. “PC terminal?” he tried.</p><p>“Who?” Orwell asked. “You want to get a constable up here?”</p><p>“What the bloody hell is going on here?” Jacques demanded. “This is my department! What have you done with it?” There was a loud cough from behind him.</p><p>“Keep it down, boss!” Markson said.</p><p>“Too late,” Orwell said, as the coughing continued.</p><p>Jacques turned, to see a door open, revealing two things- a small office space, and the man who occupied it. The man was tall and skinny, with light brown hair that stuck up all over the place, like he’d just woken up, and one, long eyebrow, instead of two. Jacques rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Okay, alright then, I’ll play along. Surprise me- what year is it supposed to be?”</p><p>“Word in your shell-like, pal,” the man said, then he grabbed Jacques by the lapels of his jacket and yanked him into the office, pushing him up against a filing cabinet.</p><p>“Big mistake,” Jacques replied, throwing the man’s arms aside.</p><p>“Yeah? What about this?” the man snapped, punching Jacques in the stomach and grabbing his jacket again. “They reckon you’ve got concussion, but I couldn't give a rat’s arse if half your brains are falling out- don’t <em>ever </em>waltz into my kingdom acting like you’re king of the jungle, got it?”</p><p>“Who the hell are you?”</p><p>“Olaf Dupin, your DCI. It’s 1973, almost dinner time. I’m having hoops.”</p><hr/><p>Jacques ended up sitting on one of the available chairs, trying to take all of this in. So, obviously, it couldn't <em>really </em>be 1973, that would be impossible. Which meant this had to be a really, really bad dream- possibly the result of his accident. He must be in a coma, that was the only explanation that made sense.</p><p>He reached out and picked up the nearest phone’s receiver. It was a long shot, but maybe he could connect to his real world this way. Maybe he could call someone… not Lemony, Lemony was still gone… but maybe… maybe he could call Kit? Even just to say hello?</p><p>“Operator?” a voice said, when he held the receiver up to his ear.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Operator.”</p><p>“No, I want a mobile number,” Jacques said.</p><p>“What?” Now it was the operator’s turn to be confused.</p><p>“A mobile number,” Jacques repeated, then started reciting Kit’s number. “0770-913-”</p><p>“Is that an international number?” the operator asked.</p><p>“No, I need you to connect me to a Virgin number- a Virgin Mobile-”</p><p>“Don’t you start that sexy business with me, young man, I can trace this call!” the operator said, then she disconnected the call.</p><p>Jacques groaned and set the receiver back down. He became aware of a strange beeping noise, of voices that didn’t seem to be connected to the incident room around him.</p><p>“Let’s get a second line in,” one voice said.</p><p>“It’s an emergency and cross-match blood down,” another added.</p><p>“He’s slipping into unconsciousness,” a third said. “Jacques? Jacques, can you hear me?”</p><p>Jacques covered his ears with his hands, and the voices and the beeping disappeared. He uncovered his ears and looked around, before covering his ears again. Nobody seemed to have noticed anything weird, or heard any of the noises he had.</p><p><em>Coma, </em>he thought. <em>This is all definitely caused by me being in a coma, and I will wake up before I know it.</em></p><p>“Just had a shout,” Markson called, snapping Jacques out of his thoughts. “That bird that went missing a couple days ago? She’s only been done in down Satchmore Road.”</p><p>“Satchmore?” Jacques asked, head whipping round to look at Markson. “That’s where Lemony…”</p><p>“Susie Tripper?” Dupin asked.</p><p>“Yeah,” Markson replied. “He wrung her neck like a Christmas turkey.”</p><p>“Right, I’ve gotta get down the pub and give the papers a statement,” Dupin said, rubbing his hands together. “If I don’t get a move on, they’ll all be half-cut.” He looked to Jacques. “You’re a senior officer, you’re in charge for now.”</p><p>He disappeared into his office, came back out wearing a long brown camel coat, and left the incident room through the same door Jacques had come in through.</p><p>“Boss?” Markson asked. “Shall we make a start?”</p><p>Jacques nodded, and went to stand at one end of the desk where the rest of the team were gathered.</p><p>“Susie’d been dead for a couple of hours when she was found,” Orwell explained. “No sign of sexual assault.”</p><p>Jacques noticed she’d squared her shoulders, and she was looking at the others as if daring them to tell her to shut up and let one of them speak. Nobody did, and he felt a bit impressed- how hard must she have worked to get that kind of respect in this decade?</p><p>“This is what she had on her,” Bert added, dropping several bracelets made of brown wooden beads and a bottle of light pink nail polish onto the desk- as well as a few crumbs and bits of filling from his sandwich.</p><p>“So then, <em>boss?” </em>Orwell asked. “Anything you wanna add?”</p><p>“Right,” Jacques began. “Yeah, so… have you visited the crime scene?”</p><p>“What, where she was found?” Markson asked.</p><p>“Yeah, where she was found. Have you preserved the crime scene at all?”</p><p>“Body’s on the slab,” Orwell replied, as though this was the only thing that really mattered.</p><p>“The body should’ve been dusted for prints on site,” Jacques countered.</p><p>“How the Hell are you gonna get dabs off skin?” Markson asked.</p><p>For a moment, Jacques couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. Then he remembered when he was supposed to be, and realised that the technology available- and the forensic knowledge- wasn’t what he was used to.</p><p>“You’re so right,” he said. “How can you? What’s the matter with me?”</p><p>“We did take some prints off a shoe, I think it was,” Markson said, consulting something in the folder he carried. “They’ve been sent down to Scotland Yard, so we should hear back in a fortnight or so, if there’s a match.”</p><p>“A <em>fortnight?” </em>Jacques asked, not really expecting any kind of answer, and not surprised when he didn’t get one.</p><p>"Motive doesn’t seem to be robbery,” Markson said, examining his notes again. “There’s just 27p in her purse, plus a couple of green shields.”</p><p>“Well, that doesn’t necessarily rule out robbery- he could’ve taken the notes. I mean, who’s gonna take 27p?” Jacques pointed out.</p><p>“Well, I would,” Markson replied. “After pub closing time, she stayed in the car park with a couple of fellas, but that’s cool,” he continued.</p><p>“<em>Cool, </em>is it? Why is it <em>cool?” </em>Jacques asked.</p><p>“Well, we know them,” Markson replied. “Loaders from Canal Wharf- they’re alright. Now, she was in the car park, and she was giving them Downhill Racer,” he continued, holding both of his fists up and bringing them down a couple of times, a gesture that prompted the rest of the room to burst into laughter.</p><p>“So you’re not gonna take statements?” Jacques asked.</p><p>“It’s not them, boss,” Orwell replied.</p><p>Jacques decided that a trip to the morgue might be useful- maybe there would be something else connecting this case to the one he and his brother had been facing back in 2006. He took Orwell and Markson with him- they seemed to know the most about this case, after all.</p><p>They stood in the morgue, Jacques and the coroner on one side, Orwell and Markson on the other.</p><p>“So,” Orwell said after a couple of minutes. “He didn’t shag her, and he didn’t rob her- so, what is the motive?”</p><p>Jacques was quiet for a moment, looking at the injuries which were visible on Susie Tripper’s body. They were mostly concentrated around her neck- several angry-looking red cuts.</p><p>“Looks like she was garrotted with a thin cord,” he observed. “No other attack marks, nothing in or around the mouth.” He paused, looking to his temporary new colleagues. “What have you learnt from the stomach contents?” he asked. He frowned, pointing at Markson, who still held the file. “Er… Bert, have a look.” Markson lifted Susie’s arm, and started lifting up the white sheet that covered her body. Jacques sighed. “No, in the file, in the post-mortem file.”</p><p>“Oh, right,” he replied, lowering both the blanket and the arm, and opening up the file. “She wasn’t fed for at least a day before she was killed.”</p><p>“And she was found in Satchmore Road,” Jacques said, the pieces all clicking together. “Come on!” he snapped, clapping his hands together and looking around the room. “Enough! Come on, stop it now!” He strode into the adjoining room. “Enough! Stop! End! Finish, come on now!” He stood in a corner of the room, pressing his hands against the tiled walls. “Okay, the walls are wet… I can smell the preserving agent, soap in the tray… and, er… a ham sandwich, half eaten…” he cocked his head to one side, listening. “I can hear somebody whistling outside…”</p><p>“You need to get some rest, boss,” Markson said, as Jacques came back into the room. “You just need a large Scotch and a bit of a kip.”</p><p>Jacques wasn’t really listening- he was kneeling beside Susie Tripper, prying something out from underneath her fingernails with a pair of tweezers. It couldn't be… it couldn't be the same fibres he’d looked at with Lemony, the ones he’d been positive would lead them to their present day killer.</p><p>“It’s him,” he said, peering closer at the fibres. “He’s killed before.”</p><p>For a moment, both Orwell and Markson were quiet, before Orwell spoke up.</p><p>“We'll er… we’ll get a plonk to give you the once over.”</p><hr/><p>The “plonk” they got was a young police woman, with chin-length, curly reddish-brown hair framing her face, and glasses with black cats-eye frames.</p><p>“No broken bones, then?” she asked, after doing a quick examination of Jacques’ head. “D’you feel like you’re gonna heave up?”</p><p>“I do feel a bit nauseous,” he admitted, rubbing at his neck.</p><p>“You’ll do,” she said. “You’ve had hangovers worse, I’ll bet.”</p><p>“Are you a doctor?” She smiled.</p><p>“I’m about as qualified as Doctor Kildare- I’m part of the Women’s Department.”</p><p>“The what?” He’d forgotten when exactly women had become integrated into the Force, but surely it must’ve happened by now?</p><p>“Don’t you have plonks in Hyde?”</p><p>“No, it’s not that… I just assumed, with Orwell being-”</p><p>“Oh, WDC Orwell’s in a league of her own,” she replied. “Right then, sir- off you jolly well trot.” When he didn’t move, she spoke again. “What now?”</p><p>“What’s your name?” he asked.</p><p>“WPC Caliban,” she replied.</p><p>“No, first name.”</p><p>“Olivia.”</p><p>“I was four in 1973, Olivia,” Jacques said. He paused for a moment, considering, before he continued. “Hit me.”</p><p>“Don’t tempt me.”</p><p>“Go on,” he said, walking over to where she was standing.</p><p>“You’ve been in an accident!”</p><p>“Hit me,” he tried again.</p><p>He sighed, and turned around, walking over to a desk which stood against one wall. Then WPC Olivia Caliban kneed him in the back, and he doubled over the desk.</p><p>“I’m sorry, sir!” she said, leaning over to check him for damage.</p><p>“Hey, good girl! Prostate probe and no jelly!” Jacques turned, to see that Dupin had opened the door and poked his head into the small room. He still wore the camel coat, and his hair was a little neater now. “Why don’t you call it a day, Snicket? Bert’ll drive you to your place.”</p><p>“My… place?” Jacques asked, straightening up.</p><p>“Yeah, they gave us an address,” Dupin replied. “Unless, of course, you’re getting a bit of a taste for it in here?” he added, looking pointedly from Jacques to Olivia.</p><p>Jacques rolled his eyes. He may have no idea what was going on, or how he had ended up here- but maybe Markson had had a point earlier, maybe he did just need to get away from this station and get some rest. Maybe when he woke up, he’d be back home, and this would all turn out to be a bad dream.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter Two: In Which Olivia Tries To Help Out</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">Chapter Two: In Which Olivia Tries To Help Out</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="u">Jacques</span>
</p><p>Jacques was still thinking about the fibres and what they could mean when he and Bert made it out of the station. He decided to try bouncing his ideas off the younger detective- it was effectively like talking to himself, right?</p><p>“This guy kills, then, what? He waits another thirty years to try again?” he speculated. “Is that why I’m here, because that’s when he first struck?” he paused. “Does that make sense?”</p><p>“Yeah, loads of sense,” Bert replied, though Jacques could tell he didn’t mean it.</p><p>“Lemony thought that Raimes knew the killer. Maybe Raimes- no, no, he’d still be in nappies.”</p><p>They were approached by WPC Caliban, who smiled brightly at him.</p><p>“I can take him home!” she offered.</p><p>“Take him, he’s yours,” Bert replied, before making himself scarce.</p><p>
  <span class="u">Olivia</span>
</p><p>Since her conversation with DI Snicket earlier, Olivia had wondered if there was anything she might be able to do to help him get back down to Earth, so to speak. Of course, she knew that most officers- particularly those in CID- wouldn’t take much in the way of advice or support from one of the plonks. Some of them barely gave Orwell the time of day, so what chance would there be of anyone listening to her?</p><p>However, Snicket seemed to be different from the rest, for a lot of reasons. Maybe he would let her help, even if it didn’t make much of a difference? It was worth a go, at least. So, she’d called up her ex, Neil, and filled him in on what was going on. They had gone to uni together and studied psychology, so she’d figured he might be able to give her a second opinion.</p><p>“This is Neil,” she explained, gesturing behind her, to where Neil was climbing out of his car.</p><p>“Jacques, can you hear me?” he asked, walking over to where they were standing. He wore a green jumper and a brown jacket, and while he waited for a reply adjusted his glasses slightly.</p><p>“What?” Jacques asked, staring at him. He kept staring for a good minute, and it was getting more than a tad unnerving.</p><p>“Do you want me to take you home or not?” Olivia asked.</p><p>When he said nothing, she shook her head and started to walk away. She hadn’t gotten far, though, when he spoke.</p><p>“Help me,” he said. Just two words- and she knew she’d have to at least try to help.</p>
<hr/><p>Snicket’s flat was rather small, but otherwise unremarkable. The wallpaper was green, with a pattern of large, five petalled flowers, and the furniture was all in varying shades of brown. A telly stood in one corner of the main room, near the bed, and the place didn’t seem to be lacking in anything Olivia could see.</p><p>“Here we are,” she said, handing Jacques the key.</p><p>“Oh my God,” he said, looking around.</p><p>“It’s not so bad, is it?”</p><p>Jacques switched the telly on, and Olivia went to see if there was anything in the kitchen. Maybe she could make a cup of tea while she was here, it seemed the least she could do.</p><p>There wasn’t anything she could use to make tea- or anything else for that matter- so instead she pulled the bottle of pop she’d been saving for later out of her bag, and opened that, deciding to offer that instead.</p><p>“I’m not mad,” Jacques said, taking the bottle. “I’m not. I had an accident, and I’ve woken up thirty-three years in the past. Now, that either makes me a time traveller, or a lunatic- that, or I’m lying in a hospital bed in 2006, and none of this is real.”</p><p>“Thirty-three years in the future? That’s where you’re saying you’re from?” she asked. Admittedly, there was a tiny part of her that wanted to believe that- that wanted to know more about what the future might bring. But she couldn't give into that temptation, it would just encourage him.</p><p>“Yeah,” he replied. “See, Lemony- that’s my brother- he’s been kidnapped by the same killer that strangled Susie Tripper yesterday.”</p><p>“You’re not making any sense,” she said.</p><p>She wasn’t even sure where to begin responding to this- how could Jacques possibly know that whoever had killed Susie Tripper and whoever had got his brother were the same person? Did he have any idea how mad this sounded? And what kind of name was <em>Lemony, </em>anyway?</p><p>“I think you should go to a hospital and ask them to check you for concussion,” she said, finally.</p><p>“He’ll hold him for a day, and then… don’t you see? It’s the same killer in both times!” he said, ignoring her.</p><p>Olivia sighed. Even if it weren’t for all this time travel coma business, she’d probably tell Jacques that he had nothing to worry about. Killers did tend to pick their victims carefully- those who would be unlikely to be able to hold their own tended to be most at risk. And if this Lemony bloke was anything like his brother, he’d probably be okay. Jacques was tall- probably as tall as the Guv, though it was hard to tell- and he was on the broader side. <em>Bit of a tall, dark and handsome type, </em>she thought- and that was a train of thought that would have to be brought to a halt right now.</p><p>The point was, even if Jacques wasn’t going on about being from the future, Olivia was pretty sure she would still have questions about what he had to say.</p><p>“Paranoid delusion, brought about by the accident,” she concluded. “It’s not concussion, it’s psychological.”</p><p>“Pretty fancy words for a WPC,” he remarked.</p><p>“I studied psychology at university,” she explained, pushing her glasses further up her nose. “Look, I’m just saying, I think this is a medical thing. You should sign off sick, and go see somebody.”</p><p>“What if you’re my mind telling me this is real?”</p><p>“You’ll have to work this one out on your own,” she replied, patting his arm.</p><p>“Thanks,” he said. “You know, for listening to what I had to say, and for not calling the men in the white coats.”</p><p>“DI Snicket, you don't seem like the rest of them, and you're clever enough to know that what you're saying can't be true.”</p><p>He didn’t say anything- instead, he slowly reached out and rested his hand just below the collar of her blouse. She sighed and removed his hand. If anyone else had pulled something like that, she’d probably have smacked them one- and if Jacques hadn’t been clearly psychologically distressed, she’d probably have smacked him and all.</p><p>“If you’re trying to see if it’s beating, then yeah, it was last I checked. Now, I’ve really got to go.”</p><p>“Where?”</p><p>“What do you care?” she asked, walking over to the door. “I’m not real, right? As soon as I walk out that door, poof, I’m gone.” She pulled open the door. “Here I go. Ready, steady…” She stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind her.</p><p>After a moment, Jacques opened the door again. Olivia had taken a few steps down the corridor, so she was no longer standing in the doorway, but she leaned over and poked her head round the door to say one more goodbye anyway.</p><p>“Get some rest,” she said, and left.</p><p>
  <span class="u">Jacques</span>
</p><p>That night, Jacques fell asleep in the ugly brown armchair, the telly still playing quietly in the background. Maybe when he woke up, he would be back in 2006 and all of this would be a bad-</p><p>“…But what concerns us most is regulating his breathing,” the TV presenter said. “That is why we have to keep the endotracheal tube in place. I have to stress to you that Jacques is in low responsiveness, but is not in a persistent vegetative state.” Jacques jerked awake, staring at the screen. “Although he has suffered a severe cranial trauma. But the Glasgow scale does put him at a deep level of coma.”</p><p>“Hey! You're talking about me! I'm here, I can hear you, look at me, I'm here!” He got out of his seat, crawling over to the telly.</p><p>“At times, however, he moves… murmurs. Has motor response as though caught up in some sort of… deep REM sleep from which he cannot wake. Well, this gives us some hope, despite the brain-stem bruising.”</p><p>It was no use- nothing he could do seemed to be getting through to the presenter. Not shouting, not smacking the screen, not waving his hand in front of the guy’s face…</p><p>“Hey! I'm here!” he shouted, determined to keep trying even if it was hopeless. “Look at me, does this look like low responsiveness to you?! I'm here!”</p><p>“Jacques?” the presenter asked, his face getting closer to the screen. “Jacques Snicket?” he snapped his fingers a couple of times.</p><p>“I can hear you! I can hear you!”</p><p>The presenter shrugged and turned away, seemingly no longer interested in trying to get a response from him.</p><p>“Wait!” Jacques yelled. “No, wait, don’t leave me! Please don't leave me! No, please, I'm here! Don't leave me here! Please don't leave me!”</p><p>It was no good- the presenter was gone. The test card appeared on the screen instead, showing a little girl and a clown. It was no use- nobody was coming to get him out of here. No-one was coming to take him home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter Three: In Which Jacques And Olaf Butt Heads</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">Chapter Three: In Which Jacques And Olaf Butt Heads</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="u">Jacques</span>
</p><p>When Jacques woke the next morning, he was more than a little disappointed to find that he was still trapped in his sepia-tinted nightmare. He had been so sure that, if he could just go to sleep, he would wake up back home and this would all be over.</p><p>There was nothing for it, then- he’d have to go back to the station and try to solve this murder case. Maybe that would be the key, maybe then he would go home. He dragged himself out of bed, got dressed and went back to work.</p><p>“Bloody hell, I’ve seen road accidents more cheerful,” Olaf remarked, when they crossed paths in one of the station’s many dim, brown corridors. “Where are you today, then, here or the planet of the Clangers?”</p><p>“We didn’t know if you were gonna show, boss,” Bert added.</p><p>“Where else could I possibly go?” Jacques asked.</p><p>“Well, we’re honoured,” Olaf replied. He started walking down the corridor, and Jacques and Bert walked with him. “Right, we’ve pulled a bird in, Dora Keynes. She was the last person to see the victim alive.”</p><p>“Is she a suspect?” Jacques asked.</p><p>“No, she’s just a pain in the arse.”</p><p>“Okay,” Jacques said, deciding to play along. “Alright, then, brief me in full. What do I need to know?”</p><p>“She’s a pain in the arse!” Olaf repeated.</p><p>“Right- that doesn’t explain why you’ve handed her into Lost Property, though,” Jacques replied, pointing to the sign on the door they’d stopped outside.</p><p>“Well, we were gonna use the canteen instead, but she’s a right mouthy bird,” Bert said. Olaf nodded, and reached for the door handle.</p><p>“Hang on, just to be clear, you’re gonna do the interview in here?” Jacques asked.</p><p>“Thick walls,” Olaf replied, pulling open the door and entering the room. Jacques sighed, and followed him in.</p><p>Dora Keynes was a woman in her early twenties, with dark, curly brown hair down to her shoulders and a large brown coat. Jacques and Olaf took seats in folding chairs across from her, while Bert leaned against one of the many shelving units in the surprisingly decent sized room.</p><p>“You had a drink with Susie the night she died, didn’t you, Dora?” Olaf asked, getting straight to the point.</p><p>“I know you from the picket line,” Dora replied. “You put the boot into my old man.”</p><p>“Oh, happy days,” he remarked.</p><p>“Sod off.”</p><p>“Can’t, love.” He pointed to Jacques. “This is my esteemed colleague, DI Snicket.”</p><p>“Hi, Dora,” Jacques said, deciding to go for a slightly calmer approach. “I want you to call me Jacques, alright?”</p><p>“You really a copper?” she asked.</p><p>“I think so, yeah,” he replied. “So, when was the last time you saw Susie?”</p><p>“In me dreams.”</p><p>“And how did she seem, that night? Did she mention meeting anyone, for instance?”</p><p>“She was horny,” Dora replied, then lit her cigarette and took a drag.</p><p>“Did she get into an argument with a stranger?” he tried.</p><p>“You know the answer,” she said, then paused, possibly for dramatic effect. “It’s blowing in the wind.”</p><p>“Right, I am done with this game,” Olaf snapped, standing up and leaning forward across the table. “Let’s play another one, shall we? Let’s play, I don’t know, hopscotch, or pin the tail on the donkey- you pick, Dora.”</p><p>“I want a lawyer,” she said.</p><p>“Yeah, and I wanna hump Britt Ekland, we can’t both get what we want!”</p><p>Jacques stared at him, not sure if he’d heard that right. He stood up- he had to get out of this room before he did something he may regret. Of course, where Dupin was concerned, it seemed unlikely that he’d actually <em>regret </em>any harm he did.</p><p>He went to the station canteen and knocked back a cup of tea. He couldn't sit still, though- he had to get up and make sure that Olaf wasn’t breaking any more rules. Getting to his feet, he made his way back to the lost property room, where Dora Keynes and Olaf were just exiting. A man led Dora away, and Jacques couldn't help noticing that her eyes were downcast.</p><p>“What the hell did you do to her?” he demanded.</p><p>“Just the usual, you know,” Dupin replied, with a shrug. “Threatened her with obstruction- kids, eh?”</p><p>“Where I come from, you’d be looking at suspension!” Jacques snapped, glaring at him.</p><p>“Really? For making a breakthrough? At 11:20, she saw Susie Tripper heading away from the pub, followed by a tall bloke with long hair.”</p><p>“Thing is, the hair under Susie’s nails isn’t human, it’s synthetic.”</p><p>“Yeah, Bert told me what happened in the mortuary.”</p><p>For a moment, Jacques was quiet, then he spoke again, realising that if he was gonna get through this, he’d need something a lot stronger than tea.</p><p>“I need a drink,” he said, and turned to go. Olaf grabbed his arm, pulling him back, perhaps a little closer than was strictly necessary.</p><p>“That is the first sensible thing you’ve said since you got here.”</p><p>
  <span class="u">Olaf</span>
</p><p>Olaf had just about had it up to here with Jacques Snicket and his crackpot ramblings. Seriously, he hadn’t even wanted a new DI- he got along just fine with the team he had, thank you very much. But if he must have a deputy, so to speak, couldn't he at least have got a normal one?</p><p>So when he got into the Railway Arms, he was already not in the best of moods- and when he saw a couple of plods propping up the bar, his mood did not get much better.</p><p>“Haven’t uniform got their own boozer? Why d’you have to rubber-eel mine?” he grumbled, tapping both men on the shoulder.</p><p>Once they were gone, he and Jacques approached the bar, catching the attention of the bartender, Nelson, who was in the middle of cleaning out a glass.</p><p>“Ah, DCI Dupin, mon brave!” Nelson said, when he spotted them.</p><p>Nelson was from Jamaica, and Olaf wondered if he played up the idea that he was fresh off the boat on purpose, though why that might be the case, he didn’t understand.</p><p>“You catching flies, brother?” Nelson asked, looking at Jacques, who was just kind of staring at him.</p><p><em>Bloody hell, </em>Olaf thought. <em>What’s he thinking now?</em></p><p>“Which part of my subconscious do you hail from, exactly?” Jacques asked.</p><p>Olaf groaned. It took a great deal of effort not to smack his own forehead in frustration. Fortunately, though, Nelson had more of a sense of humour about it.</p><p>“I like you,” he said, smiling brightly. “I like you.”</p><p>“Nelson’s a good bloke,” Olaf added.</p><p>“What are your poisons?” Nelson asked.</p><p>“Tan and bitter,” Olaf replied. “Jack?”</p><p>“It’s Jacques. And I’ll have a Diet Coke.” They both stared at him. “I’m just joking- I’ll have a pint of bitter.”</p><p>Nelson turned to the drinks, while Olaf and Jacques turned to lean against the bar. Jacques seemed to be turning something over in his mind- hopefully it was something that would actually be relevant to the case.</p><p>“Come on then, Jackie boy, out with it,” Olaf said, eventually</p><p>“Alright. The man you’re looking for is either wearing thick gloves of some sort, or he’s using a bag or something, made of coarse material that gets under the nails.”</p><p>“You can’t know all that from one stiff.”</p><p>“I’ve seen another. Look, I’m telling you…” He trailed off, rubbing his temples in apparent exasperation. “Look, what does any of this matter, anyway? None of this is real! You’re just some thug that crawled out of some dark little pit in the back of my mind.”</p><p>“Yeah, and maybe you’re a product of my brain and all,” Olaf countered. “What makes you so sure this is your dream?”</p><p>“See you, Olaf,” he said, simply. “Give my regards to the id.”</p><p>He turned to go, but Olaf grabbed him by the back of the jacket. He turned round, fists raised.</p><p>“Alright, right now! Let it be now! Come on!” Olaf rolled his eyes, laughing.</p><p>“You’re new, and you’ve got something big crammed up your jacksie. Don’t worry, though, cause you’ll learn soon enough that while I may be the sheriff, I’m still a deputy to the law. Now, I don’t care if you wanna take a swing at me- if that makes you feel good, go right ahead. All I ask is that you don’t hide anything from me. So, have you got a hunch about this case?”</p><p>“With what I know,” Jacques replied, lowering his fists, “I could find this killer.”</p><p>“Prove it.”</p><p>
  <span class="u">Jacques</span>
</p><p>The first order of business was to check the station records, see if there was anything in there which might be of any use. Jacques strode into the station, where he soon spotted DC Markson idly reading a magazine. Grabbing the younger detective by the sleeve of his blazer, Jacques directed him to the collator’s room and set him to work.</p><p>“I want you to look for these leads and see if they crop up in any of the boxes in this room. It’s a priority.” He handed Bert a list of names, which consisted of names which he could remember being relevant to the 2006 investigation.</p><p>“Priority, got it,” Bert replied. “Where d’you get all these names, anyway?”</p><p>“Call it inspiration,” Jacques replied, striding back out of the room.</p><p>The next step was to attempt some assessment of the suspect’s motivations, in order to try and work out what his next steps would be. Of course, even back home, this kind of thing was not Jacques’ area of expertise. Kit was the psychologist, not him- which was why he was going to need a hand.</p><p>“So,” he said to the rest of the team, who were gathered in the incident room. “To predict what this killer might do next, we have to be able to understand what he’s currently thinking and feeling.” He spotted Olivia, who’d come in carrying a file. “Olivia, you’re familiar with this case, right?”</p><p>“Yes, sir,” she replied, pushing her glasses up her nose.</p><p>“Could you help us out here, please?” Awkwardly, Olivia made her way over to where Bert was standing. “Now, WPC Caliban has a BA in psychology-” This prompted several sarcastic “Oohs” from the others, as well as quite a bit of laughter. “The victim wasn’t gagged- why wouldn't he gag her, Olivia?”</p><p>“Like a crackpot mind-reading act is gonna do us any good,” Orwell grumbled. “Why don’t you get back to making tea and doing the paperwork, like you’re being paid to do?”</p><p>“He didn’t gag her,” Olivia said, ignoring her. “Because he needed to see the mouth, the lips- we have to see the things we value.”</p><p>“Now, put yourselves in the mind of this man,” Jacques said. “You’re lonely, right, and every night, you dream of this girl. She’s got big eyes, and red, ruby lips. So what do you do? You go out and find that girl, and you bring her home. But you just can’t bring yourself to kiss them.”</p><p>“So you get angry,” Olivia went on. “You get embarrassed. You’d start to blame the girl- you reckon it’s her fault, that she’s taunting you just by being there.”</p><p>“And then one day, you just snap,” Jacques continued. “You strangle her, using bootlace, and then the cycle starts all over again, with a different girl. And this time, you’re positive you’re gonna be brave enough to kiss her.”</p><p>“Only you won’t be,” Olivia concluded.</p><p>“I look at your lips all the time, Caliban,” Bert remarked. “D’you think I should turn myself in?” More laughter.</p><p>“I think you’d better trot along now, sweetheart, before I have to hose this lot down,” Olaf said.</p><p>“Yes, sir,” Olivia replied, quickly darting away.</p><p>“Thank you,” Jacques called after her, just before she disappeared.</p><p>“So, how would he keep her quiet without gagging her?” Olaf asked, once she was gone.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Jacques admitted.</p><p>“Alright,” Olaf said, looking around the room. “Maybe this nutter moved to the area recently. Maybe he's on day release from the loony bin. Maybe there's a new face in the local boozers, let's find out, let's not wait for another skirt to wind up dead. And let's just hope we haven't been led up a blind alley.”</p><p>He gave Jacques a pointed look following that last remark. Jacques sighed- despite himself, he was hoping for the same thing- he was starting to get invested in this case as an actual case, not simply as his ticket home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter Four: In Which Jacques Follows The Yellow Brick Road</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">Chapter Four: In Which Jacques Follows The Yellow Brick Road</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="u">Jacques</span>
</p><p>“Sorry, sir, I’ve checked, there’s no Kit Snicket listed in that area,” the operator said.</p><p>“Okay, what about Lemony Snicket?” Jacques tried.</p><p>“Did you just make that up?” the operator asked. “Look, I’ve only got one Snicket listed anywhere near here, and that’s a Mr. Jacob Snicket-”</p><p>Jacques blinked, and set down the receiver. <em>Jacob Snicket… </em>That was his father, that was Jacques’ <em>father… </em>His father was somewhere near here, which meant his mother was nearby too, and his past self, and his siblings’ past selves… This was too weird.</p><p>A thought occurred to him just then. This was 1973, and his family still lived up in Manchester, they hadn’t moved to London yet, as they would later this year. Which meant that the Incident was still to happen- that horrible day when baby Lemony had gone missing. None of them had ever really talked about it, and nobody really knew what had happened anyway- not even Jacques, and he had witnessed it all.</p><p><em>Maybe that’s why I’m here, to understand what happened and learn the truth. </em>No, no, he couldn't be here that long. He was going home after this case, and that was that.</p><p>“Large whiskey, please,” he said. He was back in the Railway Arms, using their phone, and he figured he should at least buy something while he was here.</p><p>“Drink ain’t gonna fix things,” Nelson replied. He paused, considering. “What am I saying? I run a pub! Of course it’ll fix things!”</p><p>“I’m lost, Nelson,” Jacques said. “I’m really, really lost.” Nelson looked around the pub, before leaning in almost conspiratorially.</p><p>“You’re not lost, pal,” he said, giving Jacques a reassuring smile. “You’re where you are, and you have to make the best of it. That’s all you can do.” Another covert glance around the pub. “Keep that to yourself, though, eh? Folks just seem happier with the other Nelson.”</p><p>Jacques nodded, and stood up. He knew he should probably thank him for the advice- and apologise for his earlier behaviour while he was at it- but he couldn't make himself talk even if he wanted to. All he could do was walk back out of the pub, ready to head back to his dingy flat and get some rest.</p><p>On the way home, he bought three dark green notebooks, and stayed up most of the night filling them with everything he could think of from the years between 1973 and 2006. He and his siblings used to keep commonplace books when they were children, so this seemed like the best way to gather everything he knew into one place.</p><p>He was still holding one of the notebooks when he woke the next morning- still in the seventies, evidently- and he tucked all three into his jacket pockets before leaving to face another day working for DCI Dupin.</p><p>He caught up with Olivia outside the station and decided to show her the books. She seemed the least likely to dismiss him outright, so she was probably a safe bet.</p><p>“Look at this,” he said, showing her a few of the pages. “These are my notes from the real world, I made them last night. I’ve got so much here- films, music, wars, every detail I could remember.”</p><p>“Don’t tell me,” Olivia replied, smiling. “Atom bombs over Moscow?"</p><p>“Discussing psychiatry with your little friend?” Dupin asked, coming up to join them. Olivia slipped away, and Jacques shook her head, not even bothering to point out that he seemed to have psychiatry mixed up with psychology. “I want Bert out of the collator’s den, it’s a waste of flipping time.”</p><p>“No, it isn’t,” Jacques replied.</p><p>“Sorry, did that sound like a question?”</p><p>“I can find this killer, I know I can.”</p><p>“D’you know what? I think you’re trying to show me up!”</p><p>“You don’t scare me, Dupin.”</p><p>“That’s an interesting point you raise- allow me to retort.”</p><p>He went to take a swing at Jacques, who blocked him. Then Jacques went to take a swing of his own, and Dupin grabbed his arm and spun him round, holding both his arms behind his back and pushing him to his knees on the ground.</p><p>“Better?” he asked. Jacques rolled his eyes, not even bothering to dignify that with a response.</p><p>
  <span class="u">Olivia</span>
</p><p>Olivia had been on the streets, standing in front of the local barber’s, when DI Snicket came striding past, looking like he was on a mission.</p><p>“Where are you going?” she asked, catching up with him.</p><p>“I can’t deal with this place,” he replied.</p><p>“So you’re just giving up?”</p><p>“Look, somewhere out there, Lemony still needs me. Now, my mind can only invent so much detail, you know, so I’m just gonna walk till I can’t think up any more faces, or streets, or anything. I mean, this is just… this is just madness!”</p><p><em>You’re telling me, </em>she thought. “Look, I’ve got a nephew who fell off a pier once, and he couldn't remember the names of things. You gave him an apple, or a pencil, or anything, and he couldn't tell you what it was. And you know what? He stopped believing in them for a while. But then he got better, and everything seemed real again.”</p><p>“I’ve gotta follow the yellow brick road,” he said, continuing to walk down the street.</p><p>“And what d’you think you’ll find there? Mist? A big cliff? A white door?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” he admitted.</p><p>Then he spotted something behind her, and started walking towards one of the shops. Olivia turned and saw that he was heading into Vinyl Heaven, the record shop. Not the worst record shop in town, though personally Olivia liked the selection at Let The Record Show more.</p><p>“I used to come here!” Jacques said, peering through the shop window. “I bought my first record here- Gary Numan, I think, Cars.”</p><p>He walked into the shop and started flipping through some of the records. Olivia sighed, and followed him inside.</p><p>“Right, I’m gonna call DCI Dupin,” she said.</p><p>“And what’s he gonna do? Throw me down the stairs? Say I walked into a door? He don’t want me around, and he doesn’t need me. And I certainly don’t need him.”</p><p>“Jacques?” He didn’t reply, instead he started walking towards the small back room, where customers could try records out without disturbing anyone. “What are you doing?”</p><p>There was already a customer in the room, so Jacques flashed his warrant card and asked him to step outside for a moment. He went into the room, and Olivia followed him inside, wondering where he was going with this.</p><p>“He doesn’t gag them,” he said, like he was thinking out loud. “He doesn’t gag ‘em cause he wants to kiss them, but if they shout out, he’s gonna get caught, right? So what’s he gonna do?” A clump of soundproofing material poked out of the wall, and Jacques went over to grab it. “Strands of material underneath their nails, and on their skin- but it’s not wool, it’s rough, it’s synthetic.”</p><p><em>Okay, now we might be getting somewhere, </em>she thought, glad that her psychology degree might actually come in handy for a change.</p><p>
  <span class="u">Olaf</span>
</p><p>So far, Olaf and the team had not been having a great morning. It had started out with very little fuss- the confrontation with Snicket earlier notwithstanding. But then Dora Keynes had been reported missing, and if Snicket was to be believed, they did not have a lot of time to try and find her.</p><p><em>Think of the Devil, </em>Olaf thought, as Snicket came back into the incident room, holding something fluffy in one hand.</p><p>“I know where the fibres come from,” he announced. “It’s soundproofing, he’s trying to muffle the room to hide the cries.”</p><p>“Dora Keynes’ coat was found on rough ground, what, an hour ago?” Olaf replied.</p><p>“Yes, guv,” Georgie said.</p><p>“The sleeve was torn. She was last seen shouting at some bloke loitering in the street, at about 9:40 pm. So, stuff the collators office, we need to get out on the street because by your reckoning, we only have a day to find her.”</p><p>The pair of them got into Olaf’s brown Ford Cortina and raced to the place where Dora Keynes had last been spotted. Olaf parked the car and got out, spying a group of children playing nearby.</p><p>“Right, anything happens to this motor, and I come over to your houses and stamp on all your toys, got it?” They nodded. “Good kids,” he added, making finger gun gestures and walking away.</p><p>The first few people they spoke to didn’t know anything. Actually, none of the people they spoke to knew anything. At one of the houses, Jacques tried giving a description.</p><p>“We’re looking for this woman, Dora Keynes,” he said, holding up a photo of Dora. “Approximately 5’2”, curly brown hair, hazel eyes, wearing a fake topaz necklace.”</p><p>He would’ve probably repeated that description at the next house, but Olaf took the picture before he could.</p><p>“We’re looking for a short, skinny bird, wears a big coat, lots of gob.”</p><p>
  <span class="u">Jacques</span>
</p><p>So far, their door to door enquiries had brought them nowhere. At the very least, the car was still where they’d left it- as were the kids from earlier. Olaf gave them a bag of sweets- which would <em>definitely </em>make up for the fact he’d threatened them with destruction of property not half an hour ago.</p><p>They were about to get back into the car and drive back to the station when the car phone started to ring.</p><p>“Dupin, what?” Olaf said, once he’d picked up the receiver. Jacques could hear the crackling voice of DC Markson on the other end, even from where he stood on the other side of the car.</p><p>“I need to speak… Snicket… told me to let him know… name from his list.”</p><p>“Bert, Bert, move about a bit,” Olaf replied.</p><p>“Tell DI Snicket we’ve found one of his names in the collators office- we’ve actually found one!”</p><p>They headed straight back to the station, where Jacques found Bert in the collators office holding a file. His hair somehow looked even messier than usual.</p><p>“It’s one of the names you asked me to find, Raimes. I only found the carbon,” he said, handing Jacques a piece of paper. “It’s a statement she made three months ago, a woman in her fifties- Mrs Raimes.”</p><p>“Beryl Raimes,” Jacques replied.</p><p>“You gave the name Colin Raimes, so I thought there was a connection there.”</p><p>“Yeah, she’s his grandmother.”</p><p>They brought Mrs. Raimes into the station and gave her tea and biscuits in the incident room.</p><p>“Oh, that’s lovely,” she said, setting down her teacup. “What nice boys you are!”</p><p>“Do you want a custard cream, Mrs. Raimes?” Olaf asked, sliding the plate of biscuits closer.</p><p>“Ooh, ta,” Mrs. Raimes replied, taking a biscuit.</p><p>“Mrs Raimes, you made a complaint to the police, about three months ago?” Jacques asked, trying to get to the point.</p><p>“I say a lady policeman,” she said. “Nice girl- no life for them, is it?”</p><p>“You came to complain about a neighbour,” Jacques said. “That’s why we have a statement from you on file- the only trouble is, though, we don’t know who it was, or what it was about, because our copy got smudged.”</p><p>“Have you got any Garibaldis?” Mrs. Raimes asked.</p><p>“Bert, Garibaldis!” Olaf barked.</p><p>“It was only three months ago, Mrs. Raimes, think back, please. Think hard,” Jacques tried.</p><p>“I forget stuff,” Mrs. Raimes replied.</p><p>“Mrs. Raimes, it’s very important- it could be vital that you remember exactly why you came to see us three months ago. Was it a next-door neighbour who you were worried about, or somebody in your street, somebody visiting, someone that upset you? Maybe they did something bad, or selfish, or dangerous? Please, come on, think.”</p><p>“Pink wafers,” Olaf said after a minute, when Mrs. Raimes didn’t say anything. “I love pink wafers. You know, all those packets of wafers you get at Christmas? I love those.”</p><p>“Ooh, they are lovely,” Mrs. Raimes replied.</p><p>“Expensive, mind,” Olaf added.</p><p>“Yeah, they are, aren’t they? I sometimes get them in for my grandson, though.”</p><p>“I bet that takes a bite out of the housekeeping, eh?” Olaf replied. “Bert, run down to the canteen, see if we’ve got any pink wafers.”</p><p>“Now, guv?” Bert asked, confused.</p><p>“Hang on, sorry, is this helping?” Jacques asked.</p><p>“D’you want another cuppa?” Olaf asked Mrs. Raimes.</p><p>“Grand,” Mrs. Raimes replied.</p><p>“Don’t you go worrying yourself about this neighbour business, it’s not important at all. D’you want sugar?”</p><p>“The lad next door, number twenty,” Mrs. Raimes said after a moment.</p><p>“Oh yeah? What about him, love?” Olaf asked.</p><p>“Oh, he’s playing his record player all night- bash! Crash! Bam! And he’s not even local.</p><p>“So that’s why you came to see us, to complain about the noise from his stereo,” Jacques said.</p><p>“It did the trick, though, pet. He still lives there, but you can’t hear a thing now.”</p><p>Jacques and Olaf looked at each other, and for once, Jacques knew they were thinking the same thing- the soundproofing. For the first time since they’d met, they were on the same page. Even when they leapt over the desk and ran from the incident room, they did that together too.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter Five: In Which The Case Is Closed For Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content Warning: At the end of this chapter, one of the main characters has to be talked down from jumping from the roof of a building. The section in which this takes place is the Olivia POV section, which is also the last section of the chapter. The short, spoiler-free version, for anyone who needs to skip it, is that Jacques takes Neil's advice to an alarming extreme, Neil is not who he claims to be, and Olivia manages to salvage the situation so that everyone is okay. </p><p>This is also the end of episode one, so if you do need to skip the ending, then you won't really miss anything that's going to be relevant in the next chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">Chapter Five: In Which The Case Is Closed For Now</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="u">Jacques</span>
</p><p>They drove faster than Jacques could remember driving in a long time. Olaf had one hand on the wheel, the other holding the car phone to his ear.</p><p>“The suspect is an Edward Kramer,” a woman’s voice explained.</p><p>“We may need uniformed back-up, have you got that?!” Olaf replied, before putting the phone back down.</p><p>“You will tread carefully,” Jacques said, as they continued to speed through the streets. “We don’t even have a warrant yet.”</p><p>They reached 20 Kemmel Road, and parked the car outside the house. Olaf didn’t waste any time, busting open the door and entering. Jacques followed him, and they walked quietly down the dim hallway- though there didn’t seem much point in treading carefully, not if Kramer had heard them opening the door.</p><p>Olaf pushed open one of the doors, revealing an even dimmer room. That same fluffy soundproofing material covered all the walls, and rock music was blaring from a record machine in one corner. Olaf lifted the needle, switching off the room, and they both peered around the room.</p><p>“Kramer! Police!” Olaf barked.</p><p>“Woah, what you doing?” Jacques asked, resting a hand on his arm.</p><p>Then he became aware of a whimpering sound in the corner. Treading carefully, he made his way over.</p><p>“Dora? Dora, is that you?” Carefully, he knelt beside what seemed to be a heap of fabric piled in the same corner the whimpering was coming from, and pulled some of it back to reveal a terrified Dora Keynes. “Hey, hey, it’s alright, Dora, it’s the police. It’s okay, love, we’ve got you now.”</p><p>Right at that moment, someone else came into the room- a man with long, dark hair that hid most of his face. He walked in, saw the three of them, and immediately turned to run back out, but not before Olaf was able to grab his arm and yank him back.</p><p>“Kramer, come here!” he snapped.</p><p>Then, to make sure that Kramer really got the point, he shoved him against the wall, with a lot more strength than Jacques might have expected such a skinny bloke to be capable of. Then he attached the handcuffs to Kramer’s wrists, and frogmarched him out the house, Jacques and Dora following behind.</p><p>Outside, Kramer was handed over to a pair of uniformed officers and placed in the back of a police car. A small boy with curly red hair stood on the front step of the house next door, and Jacques watched as Kramer waved to the boy, who waved back. He looked from one to the other, realisation dawning. Everything was clicking into place now…</p><p>“Get inside, Colin, go on!” Beryl called.</p><p>Jacques snapped back to attention, watching as Beryl Raimes walked down the street, back into her house, ushering her grandson inside with her. It wasn’t until Olaf came to stand beside him that he felt able to speak, though.</p><p>“That’s Raimes’ house,” he said. “Lemony was right, he knew the killer. We were one house away.”</p><hr/><p>When they returned to the station, Bert gave them a double thumbs-up, and everyone else in the station clapped as they led Kramer to a holding cell, ready to celebrate another case closed, another killer caught. Jacques, however, wasn’t quite so enthusiastic.</p><p>Once Kramer had been processed, he and Olaf went back to the incident room, and into Olaf’s small office.</p><p>“Kramer’ll never go to trial, you know that, don’t you?” Jacques asked, while Olaf poured them each a small glass of whiskey. “He’s certifiable.”</p><p>“Nah, the jury will send him down forever,” Olaf replied, handing him a glass. Jacques set it down, and drew a piece of paper from his pocket.</p><p>“This is a doctor's note,” he explained. “We found it in his house- it says he’s seriously disturbed. He’s going to a high-security hospital.”</p><p>“What, where he’ll be mollycoddled, indulged, and if he’s a good boy they’ll let him out in twenty years? He’s not that old, he’ll still only be forty odd when he sees the light of day. And you know as well as I do, when that day comes, he will kill again.”</p><p>Jacques blinked, as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. The thirty-three gap between the murders here and the murders Jacques and Lemony had been working on suddenly made sense. He knew what had to be done- he just hoped that it would make some kind of difference.</p><p>“That’s why he doesn’t kill for so long,” he said. “We put him away in hospital, he gets out in thirty years, and then he kills- and then he takes Lemony.”</p><p>“What are you on about?” Olaf asked. He sighed, and took the note, setting it down on his desk. “Look, forget about this stupid note. If the jury know that they’re trying a cold-blooded killer it’s life, right?”</p><p>“Listen, you told me that you were a deputy to the law,” Jacques countered, resting his hands on the desk and leaning forward slightly.</p><p>“Yeah, and the law is about putting bad people away! Showing a court that note isn’t gonna guarantee that happens!” He sighed and stood up, finishing the last of his drink. “Fine, you’ve got principles, I can understand that.”</p><p>He made his way round the desk and started walking to the door. Jacques sighed, and grabbed his arm. Normally, he’d never be quite so… touchy with another detective, but this seemed to be the best way of communicating with Olaf that wasn’t verbal, so here they were.</p><p>“What, d’you want another pop at me?” he asked, one side of his eyebrow raising. “You wanna get me suspended? Well, you can try your hand if you really want to. As for this note, though, I’m making it your call.”</p><p>With that, he passed Jacques the note and strode out of the office. Once he was gone, Jacques looked down at the note. He looked at it for what felt like a very long time.</p><p><em>Could I do this? </em>he thought. <em>More to the point, if I did this, could I save you, Lem? Could I fix the future if I change the past? </em>Another thought occurred to him- if he was able to change the past, then maybe that would set him free. After all, if Kramer never got out of prison, he’d never abduct Lemony, and then Jacques wouldn't have gotten into that accident. Everybody would win this way.</p><p>He scrunched up the paper into as tight a ball as he could, just before Olaf came back into the office. Jacques looked straight at him, held up the crumpled paper ball so that he could see it, and dropped it right into the waste paper basket. Olaf smiled, and came over to stand in front of him.</p><p>“Welcome to the team,” he said, holding out a hand. Jacques could’ve sworn his eyes were shining as he spoke.</p><p>“Thanks,” he replied, shaking his hand. “Guv,” he added.</p><hr/><p>He went to the station canteen, where he sat for an hour or two, until it emptied out and the cleaners were starting to talk about switching the lights off.</p><p>“Are you okay, sir?” one of them asked, approaching Jacques’ table. Jacques nodded, and she walked away.</p><p>For a while, the room was silent and empty. Jacques sighed and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he opened them again, there was a man sitting in front of him. He seemed familiar, but he couldn't place him.</p><p>“Jacques, can you hear me?” he asked. “My name is Neil, and I’m a hypnotherapist. I’m speaking directly to your subconscious- at this moment, I’m sitting beside you in your bed, in the IC ward of St. James’s hospital. If I am reaching you, and you can hear me, then I know you can wake up.”</p><p>"I can hear you,” Jacques replied. “I’m in a coma, yeah? You can help me.”</p><p>“Whatever you may be experiencing isn’t real, Jacques, and you can escape,” Neil continued. “You only need to take that definitive step. Do as I tell you, and you will be waking up with your family and friends around here. Your mobile hasn’t stopped ringing.” He paused, before adding, “Lemony’s here, and he’s safe. If you can hear me, I know that will give you strength.”</p><p>“I’m coming back,” Jacques said, standing up. “You tell him, you tell all of them, I’m coming back.”</p><p>With that, he strode out of the cafeteria, letting the doors swing shut behind him.</p><p>
  <span class="u">Olivia</span>
</p><p><em>I am going to kill Neil for this, </em>Olivia thought, as she climbed up the ladder to the roof of the station. She should never have shown him those notebooks, she should’ve just given them right back to DI Snicket when she’d ran into him in the street earlier.</p><p>It had been a bit of a laugh at first, looking over all those notes from the “future,” but then she’d spied Snicket making his way to the roof, and it had stopped being funny very quickly. Now she felt responsible, like she had to get up there and stop him before he did something stupid.</p><p>She reached the top of the ladder and spotted Snicket standing on the edge of the roof, on the other side of the railings.</p><p>“Jacques?” she called, making her way over. “Come away from there!”</p><p>“It’s okay, I know the answer,” he said, smiling like there was absolutely nothing wrong with any of this. “I’m in a coma, and now I’m gonna take the definitive step I need to wake up!”</p><p>“Look, Neil’s my ex, we did psychology together at uni. I told him all about you, showed him those notes you made. I’m sorry, I know I should’ve given them back, if I’d known you were this serious-”</p><p>“There was nothing in those notes about a mobile phone,” he countered. Olivia blinked.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“This is just my mind, trying to keep me here.”</p><p>“No, it’s just my prat of an ex playing games with you,” she countered. “If you don’t believe me, look down, carefully.”</p><p>Neil stood below them, cupping his hands round his mouth so they could hear him.</p><p>“Please don’t jump!” he shouted. “Sorry, I’m sorry, this was a really bad joke!” Jacques raised one foot, putting it forward into the air in front of him. Olivia’s heart nearly leapt out of her mouth, but she forced it back down. “No, Jacques, don’t do it!”</p><p>Carefully, Olivia slipped through the railings, hanging on tightly and standing beside Jacques.</p><p>“What are you doing?!” he exclaimed, when he saw what she’d done.</p><p>“We all feel like jumping sometimes, Jacques,” she replied. “Only we don’t, do we? Because me and you, we know that’s not gonna solve anything, not really. It’s not gonna help.”</p><p>“This is just my mind,” he repeated, though he sounded much less sure of himself this time.</p><p>“Maybe you’re here for a reason, to make a difference,” she said. Then she held out her hand, the one that wasn’t gripping the railing. “Gimme your hand.”</p><p>He did, then he looked down at their clasped hands, frowning slightly.</p><p>“What’s that on your hands, is that grit?”</p><p>“Sand,” she replied. “I was running up here, and I fell against the fire bucket.”</p><p>“See, why would I imagine that? Why would I bother to put that kind of detail in?”</p><p>“You wouldn't.”</p><p>For a while, neither of them spoke. Then, finally, Jacques said, “What should I do, Olivia?”</p><p>“Stay.”</p><p>It was all she could think to say. She just hoped that it would be enough, and this was the last ledge she would have to talk him down from.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>